Uncovered in Merriweather, page 8
She trudged back across the frosty lawn and slipped quietly back into the house—not that there was any need for stealth given the noise of the party—and made her way to the dining room, which was full of people, too. Who were they all? Kate arched her neck to try to see beyond a group of chatting young women and finally spotted Minnie at the far end of the table, dejectedly playing a game of solitaire.
“Minnie! There you are.” Kate wriggled past the women. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“No one will play with me!” Minnie complained.
“That’s because this is a grownup party. No one wants to play with a little kid.”
“I’m not a little kid! I’m eleven and a half!”
“That’s still little. Come on, it’s time for bed.”
“Aw! No! I want to stay up! You can’t make me!”
“Remember what Mom said? If you don’t obey, you’ll miss dessert for a whole week. Is that what you want?” Kate frowned at her, her hands on her hips. “Come on, this isn’t any fun anyway. I’m going to bed, too.”
Minnie cocked her head. “Honest?”
“Yes, honestly! Come on. Pick up those cards, and let’s go.”
Minnie begrudgingly swept up the cards and wrapped the loose rubber band around them. Kate took her by the hand, not wanting to take any chances of losing her again, and led her back toward the front room. She breathed a sigh of relief that Ray was no longer there. He must have gone outside or possibly down to the cellar, though God only knew why.
She paused in her escape, however, when her eyes alighted on the group that had remained on the sofa. One of them was Edmund, with Mary sitting tightly beside him. Granted, their proximity was likely caused by the people squeezed on either side, but by the look the two of them gave each other, one would never suspect they were in any way discomforted.
Kate watched unobserved. Was it possible that Edmund was forming an . . . an attachment to Mary Crawford? It seemed ridiculous in the extreme, and yet how else could one explain the overt excitement in his eyes? She knew she should look away and retreat up the stairs with Minnie, but she could not. Her world was fracturing for the second time in a week, and she could not make her feet move.
Her misery was abruptly broken by the sound of the front door slamming.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Kate dropped Minnie’s hand. Her father!
Her momentary paralysis broken now, she hurried into the foyer and saw her father standing just inside the door, his hat pushed back to the crown of his head—a sure sign that he was angry—and his hands on his lower back. Mrs. Kerwyn stepped from behind him, her expression transforming into one of disbelief as she observed the mess. One of her gloved hands covered her mouth in dismay.
“I said, what the hell is going on here!”
Most of the crowd remained frozen, but others began to scurry. Louisa, looking somewhat disheveled, hurried in from the kitchen. Henry Crawford slunk in behind her, wearing an annoying little smirk as he adjusted his emerald bow tie. He had managed, Kate observed wryly, to likewise pull on his suit coat, as when she had previously seen him in the kitchen making love to Louisa, he had been merely in shirt sleeves.
“Oh, you’re back!” Louisa tried to say gaily, though her shrewd blue eyes were worried.
“Louisa, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Well, it was Ray’s idea, Dad! Just a little party.”
“Ray? What the hell is he doing here?”
“Well, he . . .” Louisa’s voice dropped. “He’s moved back home, I think.”
“Oh no he hasn’t. Ray!” Mr. Kerwyn bellowed.
Several more people scurried away. Kate could hear various cars starting outside.
Ray came swaggering in through the kitchen door with Lee but stopped short when he saw his parents. He was still holding the bottle of French cognac, and rather than try to hide it, he defiantly took a swig.
“Mom, Dad,” he slurred, swaying slightly. “Thought you were in Des Moines. Would have invited you had I known you were in town.” Looking at Lee, he burst into laughter. Lee, however, his face creased with fear, began to back away.
Mr. Kerwyn grabbed the bottle from Ray and, noting that it was almost gone, grabbed Ray by the shirtfront and began to shake him. Ray’s eyes flew open in surprise as he tried to wriggle free.
“Gus!” Mrs. Kerwyn cried. “Gus, don’t!”
Mr. Kerwyn continued to shake Ray. “You good-for-nothing bastard! How dare you!”
Ray pushed his father, and the older man’s grip released. They faced each other, panting.
“You get the hell out of here!” Mr. Kerwyn snarled. “Everyone, get out!” he shouted, and the few stragglers squeezed past him and slipped out the door. “Go on, get out!” Mr. Kerwyn shouted directly at Ray.
“Gus! It’s freezing! Let him at least stay the night,” Mrs. Kerwyn pleaded.
“No. He doesn’t deserve to be called my son,” Mr. Kerwyn said bitterly.
Ray’s face finally contorted into what looked like anger at his father’s disownment. “Okay, then. Fine. Fuck you, Dad.” He stormed past his father. “Come on, Lee.”
Lee hurried from the corner and followed Ray out the front door. Louisa put her hands over her eyes and began to cry.
“Stop your bawling!” Mr. Kerwyn cried. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”
With a final wail, Louisa roughly pushed past Minnie and Kate and stomped up the stairs.
“Where’s Nettie?” Mr. Kerwyn demanded of Kate.
“I . . . I don’t know, Dad.”
Mr. Kerwyn wiped his brow with a bandana and picked up the bottle of French whiskey Ray had dropped while Mrs. Kerwyn, still in her coat, made her way to the kitchen. Kate winced when she heard the resultant little cry of dismay.
“You go on up, Minnie,” Kate said worriedly. “I’ll go help Mom.”
“There you are!” Cynthia Forsythe exclaimed, popping her head into Melody’s dorm room. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
The lovely dormered room Melody had previously shared with Elsie Von Harmon, now Stockel, in Philomena Hall was already occupied by two new girls, so Melody had been given a smaller private room at the end of the hall. It had granted to her as a kindness, but Melody wasn’t quite sure she liked being alone.
She twisted in her desk chair as Cynthia waltzed in and shut the door behind her. “Hi, Cyn,” Melody responded and then turned back to the open books on the desk, propping her chin on her fists.
“What are you doing up here?” Cynthia peered over her friend’s shoulder. “You aren’t actually studying, are you?”
In truth, Melody was studying. Or trying to study. She was, however, finding it very difficult. She should have never listened to Freddy and returned mid-term. She was horribly behind, even though Sr. Bernard had mercifully placed her in somewhat easy classes, namely Shorthand, World Geography, and two gymnasium courses—Swimming and Equestrian Studies. Still, none of these appealed very much.
Swimming in the beautiful art deco pool hidden beneath the Mundelein skyscraper was pleasant enough, but horseback riding through Lincoln Park in February was not ideal. Likewise, she was discovering, she had neither the aptitude nor the interest in either geography or shorthand, and, worse, it was impossible to see how any of these subjects might be of use in the real world. She certainly didn’t see herself as a teacher or a secretary. Then again, she had never seen herself as the manager of a shop, either.
But she wasn’t the manager anymore, she reminded herself; Fred was.
Perhaps it had been better to begin now, she considered, as otherwise she would have had to endure that many more months of Fred lording it over her, not to mention Bunny complaining and Mrs. Haufbrau snipping and the Merc losing money and her mother crying and . . . and . . . Cal critiquing her every move.
She turned a page of her geography book, and the map of the Orient gave way to one of Africa.
Why was he always making it out that she was the one acting the superior, when it was really him? It infuriated her! He hadn’t even said goodbye. Not really. Just a smug (was it smug? Or was it perturbed? Who could tell? And who cared?) wave from behind the counter when she had walked through the Merc for the last time just over three weeks ago now. Like Cal, Mrs. Haufbrau did not seem upset in the least that she was leaving, merely wished her well and had then gone back to her receipt book. Harriet, on the other hand, had actually shed a tear and promised to write.
Her family had likewise been oddly unemotional. Bunny had given her a perfunctory hug, though her dark expression seemed to indicate annoyance, or maybe resentment. Helenka, too, had seemed out of sorts when she wished Melody good luck—perhaps because she knew that the brunt of caring for her mother would now fall entirely on her? Melody had tried the night before her departure to encourage Bunny to help more with Mums while she was gone, but Bunny had only rolled her eyes and walked out of the room. Only Mums seemed sad that Melody was leaving and had cried accordingly, though she quickly recovered herself, saying that it was only for a few weeks and that time would pass quickly. Melody had been about to correct her but then thought better of it, deciding to let her believe the delusion.
As for Fred, he had been unusually quiet on the drive to the train station. Melody had been tempted to go over yet again the list she had left in the office regarding the Merc’s daily and weekly requirements, but she had not the heart. He wouldn’t listen anyway. When they finally reached the station and Melody’s luggage and trunks had been carted to the platform by porters, Fred’s mood finally improved. When the train finally chugged into the station, he slipped a ten-dollar bill into her hands and wished her luck, reminding her to look for a rich husband. She was pretty sure he was teasing, but his words stung.
Well, fine. If that was the way they all wanted it, she was happy to go. Happy to get away. If the Merc failed, it wasn’t her fault.
She had remained morose and melancholy for the better part of an hour, but as the train picked up speed, hurtling her closer and closer to Chicago, her attitude began to shift. A lightness came over her as she left the cornfields and woods behind, as if she were shrugging off a heavy burden. Mile by mile, she became more and more excited to get back to her old life.
And it had been wonderful—at first, anyway—to be back. Melody had missed Mundelein more than she thought. It was a tiny campus, consisting only of the magnificent skyscraper with a whopping thirty floors and two mansions-turned-dormitories—Piper and Philomena Halls. These staid old homes, with their dark wood, Tiffany stained glass, converted gas light fixtures and inlaid Dutch tiles around the fireplaces provided a perfect contrast to the sleek art deco design of the modern skyscraper, successfully marrying the old and the new.
The Skyscraper, as it was called, was divided into several floors of classrooms, a dining hall, a hidden greenhouse on the sixth floor, a library, a chapel, and even a subterranean swimming pool. The upper floors served as a convent for the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the order of nuns assigned to the administration of the school by Cardinal Mundelein. It was an institution where the daughters of the city’s wealthy elite were schooled in proper etiquette and decorum—as well as academics for the few who actually desired some sort of profession.
Though the campus was small, it seemed larger due to its close proximity to Loyola’s sprawling campus. The all-women’s and the all-men’s schools fit perfectly together, like brother and sister, with the students often attending each other’s social and philanthropic events.
Sr. Bernard, Mundelein’s president, had warmly welcomed Melody back despite Melody’s hijinks the previous year, the most egregious being her masquerade as a nun to help her friend Elsie elope, which, in retrospect, felt like a hundred years ago now. Sr. Bernard had mercifully not mentioned this or any of her other pranks during her interview and was instead overwhelmingly kind and sympathetic regarding her recent loss. When she shared that she and the sisters had been praying for the repose of her father’s soul, Melody had nearly broken down.
Without Melody even having to ask, Sr. Bernard had offered a reduced tuition because of family financial hardship, the only expectation being that Melody would work in the library a few hours a week whenever she felt up to it. Melody had of course agreed, but wondered how she was going to have time, especially since she still intended to procure a weekend job at a candy store or a soda shop to pay Douglas back . . .
She had not immediately seen Douglas upon her return, for which she was grateful, but when she had, he had acted startled and confused. His face had gone all red, and he had—
“Melody!”
Melody jumped.
“Have you been listening to me?” Cynthia complained. “You’re a million miles away!”
Melody turned from her books to attend her friend, who was now perched on her bed, her long legs crossed, the dangling foot rocking impatiently. “I asked you what you’re wearing tonight!”
Melody’s brow creased. What was tonight?
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!” Cynthia uncrossed her legs. “Loyola’s Winter Ball?”
Ah, yes. The ball. She had nearly forgotten, which was more than a little upsetting. It was the social event of the year and the thing that Melody had most despaired missing when originally called back to Merriweather. And now, by a strange twist of fate, she was back in time to attend, but, sadly, it no longer held the significance it once had.
She was finding this to be the case with any number of things, actually. A sort of apathy concerning things that had once been of the utmost importance. After running the Merc for almost half a year, starting a cider-making business to fend off her father’s debtors, managing her ragtag band of employees, mitigating a fire, and ultimately losing her father, she was used to bigger problems than, say, a particularly onerous math assignment, a dull essay topic, or some boy failing to turn up for a study date as arranged.
She tried to care about all of the gossipy goings-on, but she found it hard. More often than not, her mind instead wandered to whether or not Fred had ordered enough cider bottles for the upcoming season, as she had instructed, or if he had remembered to pay the Schneiders for their last two months of eggs. Knowing Tom Schneider, John’s father, he wouldn’t speak up and ask for it. He would simply wait patiently for—
“Melody!”
She jumped again. “Yes!” she blurted. “I mean, what was the question?”
“What are you wearing tonight?” Cynthia’s tone was one of exasperation.
“Oh.” Melody tried to think. “Probably my green Chanel. How about you?”
“I haven’t decided.” Cynthia flopped back on Melody’s pillows, evidently convinced now that Melody was finally firmly in the conversation. She put her hands behind her head and stared up at the ceiling. “Probably the red. But maybe the white Vionnet. Oh, what do you think?”
Melody sighed internally. “The white, I think.” In truth, she didn’t think it mattered.
“Me too!” Cynthia sat up suddenly and threw her legs over the side of the bed. “Oh, Melody, I just have a feeling about tonight. Something big is going to happen; I’m sure of it.”
Melody did not say so, but she had the opposite feeling. That nothing at all would come of the evening. She was, in fact, dreading it. It was the first time, probably in her whole life, that she was attending a dance without an escort. Her fantasy about resurrecting the old foursome—as friends only—had immediately been dashed when Cynthia had reported, on her very first day back, that Douglas was now dating Vivian Anderson in earnest.
“The nerve!” Cynthia had exclaimed, referring, of course, to Vivian, not Douglas. “She’s only doing it to rattle you. As soon as she heard you were coming back, she dug her claws into poor Dougie and won’t let go for heaven or earth. It’s too, too terrible! Are you sure you don’t want Charlie to speak to him? I think he’d take you back in a second, Mel. He hasn’t been the same at all this semester. Just mopes. Oh, do let Charlie talk to him!”
“No, Cyn,” Melody had said with a frustrated sigh. “It’s all over between us. I’ve told you all this. Douglas is a chum. And nothing else,” she added pointedly as she tilted her head at Cynthia in warning. And besides, she realized now, it wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to reform the foursome, even as friends, when she knew how he felt about her. It would be too cruel.
Cynthia had eventually accepted, begrudgingly, Melody’s changed feelings, but it did not stop her trying to find Melody a date for the ball. She had Charlie ask all of his fraternity brothers, but, unfortunately, at this late date, everyone already had a partner. Melody—somewhat grateful that Charlie had come up empty-handed—had insisted she was happy enough to stay behind. Cynthia, however, would not hear of it and insisted that she come with her and Charlie. “It’ll be just like old times,” she had gushed. “Well. Sort of. Come on, Mel! That’s why you’re here! To have fun. You’re turning into Elsie these days—studying half the day and night.”
In the end, Melody had agreed to be the third wheel to Cynthia and Charlie’s twosome, realizing that it would probably take less effort to simply attend for an hour than to continue to come up with excuses that Cynthia would inevitably continue to knock back.
Melody stood up and stretched. “Well, I suppose we should get dressed. If we’re going, that is.”
“Goodness, yes!” Cynthia exclaimed, hopping up from Melody’s bed. “It’s nearly seven o’clock!”
***
Loyola’s annual Winter Ball was held each year in the campus auditorium inside Cudahy Hall. Maroon and gold banners hung from the ornate plastered ceiling, and paper streamers in the same colors crisscrossed the room. On the curved proscenium stage with its triple illuminated arches, the college’s orchestra was playing a mix of traditional waltzes and a variety of the increasingly popular swing tunes.
Taking in the ornate hall, Melody felt glad she had decided to come. It was, after all, as Cynthia had reminded her earlier, one of the reasons she had looked forward to returning to school. She hadn’t realized, however, how similar the auditorium was to their own little Merriweather Opera House, though no “operas” were performed there anymore. In fact, it was more of a movie house these days, though she had seen a production last summer of You Can’t Take It With You put on by the Merriweather Players. It had really been quite good. It was the last thing she had seen with her father before—
